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“Some say it’s coincidence,” the man continues, “but I say that the bastard is getting rid of any threats to his power, even his own blood.”
Mischa shrugs, disinterested “What else?”
“Another rumor. This one is…more gossip than anything, but it might serve your purpose if it pans out. There is talk that Winthorp wouldn’t cut off his own sister and attack his father without securing his own bloodline. His father was a madman, you realize? Had it specified in his will the exact stipulations of any inheritance.”
I remember them. Archaic nonsense Robert used to scoff at. He could only marry someone his father approved of and produce a male heir. One of the many reasons our relationship wasn’t valid in the eyes of his father.
Briar’s wedding, in terms of succession, put her one step closer to securing the elder Winthorp’s favor.
“You know how some of those old-fashioned fucks loyal to that family are,” Gabriel sneers. “They’ve all supported him, but they wouldn’t without proof that he’s established himself as the head of the Winthorp name. Dogs need their rewards, you see.”
“Proof?” Mischa sits forward, an eyebrow raised. “What kind of proof?”
Gabriel shrugs. “The kind that would make a man bold enough to imprison his sister—allegedly—and kill his father. There’s talk that he had a pet he kept close.” Once again, his dark eyes dart in my direction.
This time, Mischa copies him and my heart stalls at the intensity of his gaze.
“And?” my tormentor prompts.
Gabriel’s lips quirk into yet another quick smile. “Andthere’s talk that he may have cemented his bloodline, if you know what I mean.”
I stop listening. My stomach churns ominously, even though I know it’s a lie. Iknow.But the knowledge swirls in my blood like poison, making it harder and harder to breathe…
“I need fresh air.”
Both men turn in my direction as I rise from my chair, using the arms for balance.
“Wait.” Mischa advances on my position before I can even make it to my feet. Within seconds, I’m in his arms, being carried from the room. “We’ll continue this later,” he calls to Gabriel.
The other man merely laughs. “Of course.”
Tension radiates from Mischa, seeping through my skin as we enter the cold night air. He all but shoves me into the van, climbing in after me.
“Drive,” he snaps to the driver. “And get Vanya on the phone as soon as you can. The fucker’s up to something. I can sense it. And you…” His eyes cut to me. Before he even opens his mouth, I beat him to the punch.
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Even now, I can’t even force myself to say it out loud—the scenario that I know is on his mind. “It’s not.”
“Oh?” He laughs. “And I’m supposed to believe that because you fucking say so?”
“Yes.” The simplicity of my answer makes him grunt in shock. “I wouldn’t lie about this—”
“About what?” Mischa demands as his man dutifully puts the van into motion. “About your fucking spawn with Winthorp? Let me guess.Nowis the time you beg me to spare them both—”
“There is no child.” My fingers fly to my lips, suppressing the confession. It’s not the whole truth. Inhaling raggedly, I try again. “They… He died.”
Mischa says nothing, even as my body deflates with the admission. Hunched over, I focus my attention on breathing. In and out. Ironically, he’s the one who taught me this mantra—how to survive when it feels like the world is caving in and nothing could possibly slow the onslaught.
So I breathe.
When I finally let myself refocus on my surroundings, the van has stopped. Muted noises echo as if I’m hearing them from underwater. Shouting. Mischa. We aren’t near his manor, I realize, but parked along a country road. Shadows obscure any defining features and I can’t even begin to guess our location.
Mischa stands outside the van, with the door on his end wide open. Carried by a harsh wind, his voice drifts to me, tense and low.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Suddenly, he breaks off, his eyes wide. “Shit!” The next second, he’s lunging into the van, shouting in the driver’s ear. “Drive! Fucking drive!”
The van explodes into motion, kicking up mud as it peels down the road. Soon enough, Mischa’s manor appears on the horizon like a smudge of brown over an inky sky. A smudge is quickly enhanced by strokes of orange and yellow.
“No! Fuck, no!” Mischa slams his fist into the back of the seat before him as the driver swerves off the road, cutting through a field to reach the house sooner. Yards away, Mischa flings the door open and jumps out with the driver hot on his heels. “Safe house,” Mischa shouts.
